


Naming the Nightmares

by OmalleyMeetsTibbs



Series: Tumblr Posts [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Nightmares, POV First Person, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sharing a Bed, Suicidal Thoughts, proposal, really it's two lines but it's fair you guy should know, very briefly mentioned - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:49:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26346634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmalleyMeetsTibbs/pseuds/OmalleyMeetsTibbs
Summary: John and Sherlock have a lot of processing to do after the lives they've led. It's figuring out how to process them together that starts to blur the lines of their relationship into something more.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Tumblr Posts [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1782187
Comments: 44
Kudos: 96





	1. The Rehab

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of the earlier fics I wrote, not really chapters but different parts. Also, I apologize for the POV but I was practicing and wanted to understand their voices better. And I think I did that! So I hope you enjoy it anyway!

As I put Rosie down for the night, rustling noises drift up from downstairs. Sighing, I realize that Sherlock is not asleep like I had hoped the last time I saw him. He’s been needing it. Desperately. _I've_ been needing him to need it. But he never has taken care of his “transport” well. And, honestly, he doesn’t really need as much sleep as the average human anyway. But I've been watching him these past few days, and the deep-set marks around his eyes, his lack of vibrating vivaciousness, and those biting marks that cut me to my core all point to a sore need for sleep. Hearing those shuffles, I know, I just _know_ he is off doing some experiment or thinking through our latest case.

So I stomp downstairs to tell him off, still being cautious enough of my sleeping Rosie. If he doesn't go to sleep on his own, I’ll drug his tea with some sleeping aids.

That’s when I see him, sprawled out on the couch in his pajamas and blue dressing gown. So, he is sleeping.

As I gaze at him trying to determine what I had been hearing but glad he's finally getting some rest, his head starts rocking back and forth. A repeated “No” escapes his contorted expression, each repetition louder than the last.

It's a nightmare.

Well, that explains the past few days. The poor sod doesn't want to go to sleep for fear of what his mind will bring him in the dark depths of night. With crossed arms and a soft shuffle, I position myself out of arm's reach by the couch.

“Sherlock. Sherlock, come on, wake up. You’re having a nightmare. Sherlock, it’s me, John. Come on, wake up." Hoping that's all he needs to pull him out of the depths, I speak a bit louder with each repetition of his name. I don't want him, or me, waking Rosie. Thankfully, his eyes flutter open, and a wrinkle appears between his brows.

“John? Is...is everything alright? Is something wrong with Rosie?”

“No, no, everything is fine. I just asked if you wanted some tea." The lie slips off my tongue, wanting to keep his dignity intact. If he doesn't want to share about the nightmares, I'm not one to pry.

“Please.”

The word struck me. This would have been a normal response. But the word was spoken in such a soft, almost nervous way that it wasn't right. My steps falter for a moment on my way to the kitchen when the realization catches up with me.

I need to make him talk about this with me even if he doesn’t think he wants or needs to. But Sherlock needs to talk to somebody, _anybody_ , including me. After all, I'm the only friend he's got. He's said as much.

The ritual of making tea calms me. Kettle, two mugs, two bags, milk for me, sugar for him, steep the bags, stir the tea. It allows me the time to figure out what the hell I'm going to say. _Hey Sherlock, you know nightmares aren't just for kids. Hey Sherlock, you were making noises in your sleep. Hey Sherlock, you know I'll always listen to you, right? Hey Sherlock, I know I'm probably the monster in your nightmares, but I've changed. I swear._

With a swift shake to clear my head and a sharp tap of the spoon on the rim, I pause, leaning forward heavily on the counter, and let out a deep sigh. Whatever it will be, he won't be the one to start. He’d need to be trusted to give trust. Especially after everything I've put him through. Even knowing this would open my own nightmare world for tonight, I realize I need to tell him about my own stories.

After handing him the tea, I sit on the coffee table, our knees almost touching, mine surrounding his, comforting in the closeness and shared warmth. With a steadying breath and a small sip, I start straight into the heart of the matter.

“Have I ever told you about my nightmares of Afghanistan?”

I can see the expression on his face change. He knows what I am doing, but plays the game anyway, a sense of gratefulness slipping into his words.

In a firm and slow voice, he replies, “No, you haven’t. I’ve been able to deduce the nights you do have them, even when you aren’t here at Baker Street. You always have a slight limp, a dark look, and you try to smile more, but it is never a true one on those days.”

I can hear the softness, trying his best to relate—to open up conversation, not close it—trying to show he's paid attention to me but still choose to honor my space by not pointing out any of that before.

It catches me off guard, the honesty, the care. Enough that my tea betrays me and makes me cough before I can respond.

“Yes, well. I suppose that's true. They are hard and too real and inevitably put me in a sour mood." I can feel my brow furrow and the bite of the teacup in my palm. "It’s hard. It's hard watching your friends—the people you love—die over and over again while you try to do everything you can to save them from bleeding out underneath your hands, and...and you just can’t.”

The words rush out of me, leaving me breathless and flayed. The air between us is wrought with the images of my nightmares, hovering, thick and sticky with blood and sweat. I can feel Sherlock's eyes on me, waiting for me to continue. Patient. Kind. With a deep breath that blows the scenes out from between us, I'm able to start again. “Having to re-live my worst days, well, I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.” With the corner of my mouth beginning to curl up and a one-armed shrug, I add, “Well, except for maybe Mycroft.”

Sherlock, who had been observing me with those bright, mesmerizing eyes of his, offers a startled, soft chuckle as he raises his mug to his lips. “Quite right," he says, his lip curling around the edge of the mug. I wait, patient and quiet, knowing that he will talk when he is ready. After enough times of pushing him, I've understood how often that leads to the exact opposite result I want. Stubborn arse.

The mirth drains from his eyes, his face. Lowering his mug, his eyes following it, Sherlock asks, “What if your worst days are your fault, and only yours? Would you deserve it then?”

My heart drops into my stomach, and I could feel my face fall with it. Without even needing to think on the answer, the words blurt out. “No, Sherlock, not even then.”

“Oh.” There is a long pause as Sherlock reassesses this information, brow furrowed. “Have I ever told you about my last overdose before I met you? No, of course I haven’t. I’d remember. Let me rephrase. Has Lestrade ever told you about it?”

Shifting my weight on the table, I place my cup to the side and lean forward on my knees. “No, he hasn’t." My brow knits together, and I put on my sternest look. “And I wouldn’t have let him if he tried. That’s your story to tell. No one else’s.”

“Well, perhaps. But it is likely in his list of worst days as well.” As I wait again for him to continue, I do my best to project a sense of calm, trust, understanding, knowing he would tell me if, or when, he was ready.

Casting his eyes away to the falling dark outside, Sherlock begins, “As you know, I used my 7% solution to help control the data input to my mind, to help me think better. You have seen me in its control, however loathe I am to admit it."

There is a dark look in his eye as he turns his attention to me. "Ever." As the ferocity passes, Sherlock drops his gaze, and his shoulders round. "But it was one of those times. I hadn’t yet found...” with a pause, he glances in my direction before deciding on his next phrase, “the Work to help with the maelstrom of my mind. I had been spiraling, decreasing the time between my hits in what I now realize was an alarming rate. I had been high for three, maybe four days when I happened upon one of Lestrade’s crime scenes. I started deducing the victim, the killer, the police, the bystanders, basically anything and everything around me." Flashing a look at me from the corner of his eye, Sherlock adds, "Before puking all over Lestrade’s shoes."

I stifle a giggle as he flicks his hand through the air. "He kicked me off his scene but didn’t arrest me that night. I felt exhilarated at what I had done. I knew that this could keep my mind occupied if I let it."

Sighing, he avoids direct eye contact by looking out the window again, hands beginning to fidget with the teacup. "But my veins were aching, burning for my next hit. I arrived back at my flat—if you could call it that—and immediately went for a hypodermic. I was... distracted by the case, my excitement, and, admittedly, still disoriented from the drugs in my system. I miscalculated. Not only did I mix my solution wrong, I... I had forgotten how recent my last hit was. As soon as this one hit me, I regretted it."

Sherlock's body becomes rigid, still. "A wave crashed over me, and I knew I was lost. I knew I wouldn’t have the thrill of the case anymore. My last coherent thought was ‘I wish I could have told Mycroft he was right.’”

My eyebrows rise up. Feeling the question, Sherlock turns back to answer it, the soft look on his face catching me off guard.

“No, I never did tell him, and there is no way I will. You can’t either." I nod my understanding. "Mycroft had been watching me, one of the few times I am thankful he was. He saw the state I was in at the crime scene and called the detective inspector. Mycroft gave him my address and sent him to check on me. Lestrade found me gagging on my own vomit, covered in sweat, and my heart racing. He called for an ambulance, and made sure I stayed alive until they arrived." Sherlock focuses on his hands, once again fidgeting with the mug in his lap. "I assume he blames himself for sending me away instead of arresting me that night. Or at least for not making sure I was alright on my own. Once the ambulance arrived, he called Mycroft and informed him of what had occurred."

I can tell there is more to the story that Sherlock is working up the courage to continue. Leaning back, I take my teacup back in hand before asking, "What happened then?"

“I woke up in the hospital, Mycroft hovering in the corner. He informed me that I would be put in rehab. But you must know, Mycroft was too involved in taking over the world to do proper research for his younger addict brother.” The scorn drips almost wearily from his tongue. Practiced. “I ended up in a rather dismal rehab center. Top of the line facilities and superb interactions with family members and such, but as patients, we were... treated as less than. Being in withdrawal and under-stimulated, I antagonized the staff. They punished me by removing every other form of mental stimulus I may have had."

The look on Sherlock's face puts a chill through me. An empty look of the dead. But he soldiers on with his story.

"Books, computers, my phone, other people, windows, anything they could think of to take away. Without the cocaine and nothing else to stimulate my mind, I started devolving. At first, I raged, I screamed and hurled insults and deductions. But then, I shut down. Went quiet for weeks. Stopped eating. I went deep into my mind palace, much smaller than it is now, but a place I could still allow myself to be lost in. After spending two weeks completely absorbed in my mind, I started dismantling the place one brick at a time. If I was to be stuck in a life without a way to use my brain, what use was it to me anyway.

“The doctors decided to inform my brother about my condition after I had gone those several weeks without talking and little to no food. He came to visit me then, finally seeing me for what I had become. The thinning hair, translucent skin stretched taught over my too-thin frame, and—as he told me later was the scariest thing for him—my dull, disengaged eyes.”

My lips press together into a thin line. I remember that look from the last slip into drugs Sherlock had taken. It is one of the scariest things I have seen too. Sherlock carries on, “Mycroft realized that I was ripping myself apart in that rehab. He took me out and moved me into his house. He convinced Lestrade to work with me, under the condition that I never came onto crime scenes high again. The time in the hospital brought me through the withdrawal, but Mycroft and Lestrade, they saved my life, my mind."

Sherlock's eyes flash bright and cold before softening around the edges. "I can’t stand being indebted to them, but I am grateful they did.”

I nod in understanding. Sherlock is not one to feel obligated by or to anyone or anything, but he values his work, and they had given him that. With a deep breath, Sherlock looks towards the window, and in an almost whisper adds, “Sometimes, I dream about being forced into that rehab again, dying day by day, minute by minute, losing everything I have come to care about.” Glancing to me, I see the unshed tears in his eyes. “I can’t lose Rosie, John,” his voice hitches and cracks, “I can’t.”

I look back into his eyes, holding his gaze, and pouring all my sincerity into my response, my own voice hitching. “Oh, Sherlock. I know. I know. You won’t. You won’t lose Rosie.” Sherlock’s gaze falls back to his mug, and I knock my knee against his, “Hey, Sherlock, look at me.” Gazing up through his lashes, he looks almost bashful, ashamed of his needs, his show of weakness. “You won’t lose her, Sherlock, you won’t lose us.” Something struck me, “Have you... have you been worried about us leaving Baker Street? Is that why you’ve been having this... this Rehab nightmare?”

Sherlock drops his gaze once more. “Yes.”

“Oh." My heart sinks. "Sherlock, listen. You’re... You're my best friend, and I don’t want to leave here. Ever. As Rosie gets older, we may have to, but it won’t be like before. You are her godfather. She loves you. Adores you, in fact. You are in her life now no matter what. For the foreseeable future, you are stuck with us, here, at Baker Street. This is home. Has always been for me. I don’t want to leave it. Not again. We aren’t leaving, Sherlock. Ok?”

“For now.”

“Alright. Good. That’s settled.” With a sharp pat to my knees to end the conversation, I collect the mugs to take them back to the kitchen.

Sherlock stops me with a hand on my sleeve. “Thank you,” and his hand falls away.

Smiling down at him, I give a short nod. “Of course.” After a quick rinse of the mugs, I place them in the sink and resign myself to a rough night of sleep. Hearing Sherlock’s story and bringing forth my own memories of Afghanistan makes it inevitable. I knew that from the beginning. Upstairs, I crawl into bed, being careful to not wake Rosie as she sleeps in her crib on the other side of the room. When the sounds of Sherlock’s violin waft up the stairs and wrap me in warmth and comfort, I can't help but smile at the familiar refrains. Drifting off, I hope that it won't be a bad night after all.


	2. Serbia

_White walls rush by me as my feet pound against the tiles of the hallway. The man in front of me, dark and shadowy, turns around the corner up ahead and through a door, and I slide around it to follow him, my coat whirling behind me. I come up short as the chase ends and the environment changes. The room opens into a sunlit meadow, full of swaying grass and dust spots drifting through the streams of light. The shadowy man is nowhere to be seen, but there, up ahead, John kneels down, facing away from me. I walk to him and place my hand on his warm, solid shoulder, gripping it to ground myself in his presence. He turns to me, and instead of his face, glowing red eyes, a snout, dark fur, and a snarl greet me. The Hound. I jump back, shaking my head and crushing my fists into my temples. It isn't real. It can't be true. The hound’s face distorts, flashes of Moriarty showing through. The meadow drops away around me, leaving behind a hard, unrelenting black, Moriarty still standing in front of me, fully himself now._

_“Oh Sherlock,” he starts in his soft Irish lilt. “Did you miss me? You must have. That’s why I am here, isn’t it?" With a tilt of his head and a smile full of teeth, stretching across his face further than is human, he says, "Let’s have a little fun now."_

_The world tilts from underneath me, spiraling me through the air, Moriarty gone and the black replaced with walls of concrete. Suspended in chains, arms pulled taught with no give._

_Serbia._

_I start running through options of how to get out of the... a whip cracks through the air, and a blazing white-hot pain tears across my back and around my ribcage. A gasp fills my lungs with thousands of icy needles._

_“I told you I would make you beg for mercy. Twice.”_

_Irene. She shouldn't be... another crack makes my vision blur as I pull against the shackles, fleeing the pain. Trails of sweat bead down my forehead, matting my hair, filling my eyes with stinging, flavoring my lips with salt. Trails of blood bead down my back, slicking my skin, filling my nose with the smell of iron, plinking down to join the puddles of water below. I sense the raising of the whip once more behind me, the hand winding up to strike and…_

“Sherlock. Hey, it’s me. It’s John. Wake up.”

I bolt upright in bed, gasping for air, no longer feeling the needles in my lungs. I search out John’s eyes, his calm but concerned eyes.

Why is he concerned?

Oh. Must have been making noises and woke him. I hope I didn’t wake Rosie, too. My breathing quickens again, my heart pounding. I swear it must be visible enough for John to see it beating through my chest and into my lap, fully on display. A wrinkle forms between John's brows. That’s been happening a lot lately.

“Hey Sherlock, breathe for me. In and out. In and out. See? That’s better isn’t it?” My breathing is almost normal, my heart rate slowing again, and John smiles weakly at me. He sits on the edge of my bed facing me, watching intently, searching for answers. His warm, solid presence further soothes my racing heart.

“Did I wake you?”

“No. Rosie was up about half an hour ago and just went back down. I was about to make tea. Do you want some?”

“Yes. Thank you.” John leaves with a tired shuffle and starts his tea ritual. Solid, dependable John. I grab my dressing gown and follow him into the kitchen, my body aching from the memories and the tension binding my muscles, my scars.

“The Rehab again?” he asks in a casual manner.

“No. This time was Serbia,” I inform him, my tone flat, hoping to avoid expressing how much it has affected me. It has been a few weeks since my last series of nightmares.

“Serbia? What happened in Serbia?” Again, the crinkle between his brows but with the addition of a slight frown pulling at the corners of his mouth.

John's grounding presence pulls me closer, promising protection, safety. In the same monotone, I explain, “It was when I was away. Dismantling the web. I was caught in Serbia and held. Mycroft got me out, barely. I still have the scars.” I don’t need to mention that they are not only physical. John knows, understands. Afghanistan.

John turns toward me, leaning against the counter, ankles crossed, and speaks in a low voice, respectful of the topic. “I didn’t know that. We’ve never talked about your time away. For either of us.” He licks his lips. “When did Serbia happen?”

“Right before I returned to London.” I remain stoic, hoping he doesn’t realize. I watch his face transform from concerned to confused to horrified to guilty. Of course he would realize.

“Jesus, Sherlock, please tell me you weren't still healing when you came to the restaurant.” When I refuse to answer, pressing my lips into a thin line, John runs a hand over his face, pulling along his jaw, before moving back to pinch the bridge of his nose. “How..." his voice attempts to break, "how badly did I hurt you that night?”

Oh, how to answer that question. _You ripped my heart out and ground it beneath your heel._ That’s how badly, John. I am still hurting from that night. “I pulled a few stitches, and re-cracked a couple of ribs. Nothing major.” John’s face falls, and he curls deeper into himself. His breathing hitches, and the fingers pinching the bridge of his nose press harder to hold back the tears that threaten to fall.

It’s my fault he now knows and blames himself. I scramble to find something to say to remedy the situation.

“I’m fine, John. It’s fine. You know I’ve had worse,” I offer in what I hope is a gentle manner.

John turns away and slams his fists on the counter. “I know. And I’m the one that did that too!”

Now it’s my turn for the wrinkle to appear. I have no idea what he means. “John?”

“I blamed you, Sherlock. I beat you. Kicked you while you were down. Literally. And you thought you deserved it.” John's voice cracks as he repeats the last phrase. "You thought you deserved all of it." He inches around to face me and searches my eyes, the tears clinging to the rim of his lower eyelids, threatening to pour in rivers down his cheeks.

Though I’m doing my best not to shut him out anymore, even with such obvious pain showing from him, in this moment, I find it difficult not to hide my own pain in efforts to comfort him. But John sees the start of the attempt anyway. “Oh god, you still do. Sherlock, you must know—you _must_ —that you never deserve to be attacked like that. No matter if you had done something or not. But I don’t blame you for her death, for leaving, for any of it, and I never should have. I took it out on you, and that was absolutely wrong. I’m sorry. I am so sorry. I'm a monster, Sherlock. I'm such a monster.” Those last sentences come out in whispers.

For how much I have already forgiven him, he has yet to forgive himself.

“I know you're sorry, John.” I move closer and cautiously wrap my arms around him, cradling him to my chest. I rest my cheek on the top of his head, like the first time, and whisper, “I know.”

Having him here, seeking my forgiveness, showing remorse for the pain he caused, it grips my heart in a vice and settles something inside me I didn’t know was tumultuous. Knowing that John doesn't think I deserve the blame I have been heaping on myself allows a portion of it to release. And another portion goes with the knowledge that John understands his fault, his destruction, in the matter. A sigh escapes me as I settle further into the embrace, the feel of John's hair soft against my cheek.

John's arms unfurl from the space between us, and he grips me in them, pressing his face in my chest.

After a long minute, perhaps more, John’s breathing returns to normal, and my mind settles into a calm I had been lacking since the incident at Culverton’s hospital. John pushes back against my arms, and I release him, hands dropping to my side as his still rest on my hips. Looking up at me, his eyes flit back and forth between mine, searching for something.

“Will you show me?” he asks. I gaze into his eyes before nodding once, his openness and trust convincing me. I pull out one of the kitchen chairs and peel off my dressing gown and the t-shirt I had been sleeping in, still sticking to my skin from the cold sweat. My heart begins racing again as I sit down straddling the chair so John could see the pinkish lines crisscrossing and distorting my skin. I hear him shuffle closer and inhale sharply. The ghost of a doctor’s fingertips grazes across a few of the puffiest scars.

“They favored a whip most days," I say in explanation, staring forward, resolved to remain impassive.

“Do you have restricted movement? Desensitization? Pain?” His voice sounds strained as if attempting to conceal anger.

“Sometimes.” It wouldn’t do to lie now. It’s all there for him to see. His warm, dry fingers pull away. I miss their warmth immediately, to my bones.

“Does touching cause flare-ups?”

“No. It’s when I over-stretch or exert myself. Or have nightmares.” The gentle touch returns, a little more sure now. But this time on the oval scar between my ribs. “A knife. From a fight in Denmark tracking down Mrs. Hudson’s sniper.”

“Mrs. Hudson’s _what_?” I can hear the incredulity in John's voice.

“Sniper." I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the cool wood of the chair back, resolving myself to explain. "The reason I had to jump from St. Bart’s. Moriarty had you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade all trained with snipers. I had to jump; my life for yours.” The quiet words tumble out of my mouth, my voice quavering no matter how much control I attempt to exert over it.

Soothing fingers move across each of the scars, always pausing to hear the stories that caused them. Each time I detail where I had received them, each story bringing forth its own emotion, its own release, its own connection. My voice and his hands. Some came from various cases, even cases with John, one from a childhood game of pirates, but most are from my time away, in Serbia. As John touches each one, his hands heal without healing, full of compassion, curiosity, and care, listening to all the stories I haven’t spoken aloud before. For each painful memory received and re-lived, a gentle one is added.

It takes almost half an hour to go over every single scar and mark I have been given, and those are only the ones on my back. The gunshot wound on my chest is for another time, another conversation. John already knows of that one.

By the time we finish, my shoulders are no longer taught nor near my ears, my fists unclench, my jaw is loose and hanging open, my eyelids pull toward the floor, and my cheek rests against the back of the chair. I haven’t been touched with such gentle, tender, nurturing care in what seems like forever. I had forgotten how much I crave it, need it. When all the scars on my back are cataloged, John rests a palm on the nape of my neck and gives a caressing squeeze, his fingers twining into the curls there.

“Are you ready to try going back to sleep now?” His voice is so quiet and low that I almost don't hear him, but the proximity of his lips to my ear makes it impossible to miss, his warm breath electrifying my skin.

With a mild nod, I hum, “Mmm. Yes. I do think I’ll try.” Stepping away, John gives me the space to stand. I grab my robe and wrap it around myself as I do. Turning back to look at John, I hold his gaze with my own, both of us recognizing that something has settled between us. With a slight smile and a nod of gratitude, I make my way back to bed knowing I would not be bothered with dreams of Serbia again, at least for tonight. As we pass each other, John pats my shoulder before trailing his fingers down to my elbow as we part. He must know what these touches do to me. Too relaxed to prevent myself, I lean into the heat left behind by his absence.

“Thank you,” John says, “for everything. For saving us, for protecting us.” I watch as he turns and leaves the room to head to bed, his limp making a brief appearance. Concern for him blossoms across my chest, filling me with an ache I don't know how to handle. Tonight will be a bad night for him. But tonight will be the first night of true sleep I have had in years. If I’m being honest, since I jumped from the roof of St. Bart’s. This is the first time things have felt even close to right again since I left, and I can only hope that it continues. John long out of sight, I turn back to my room, comfortable and hopeful, ready to see where this new connection will lead us.


	3. St. Bart's

Kettle, two mugs, two bags, milk for me, sugar for him, steep the bags, stir the tea. Sit. Stare.

The ticking of the clock reverberates through the room, echoing through my head, taking my mind and sanity with it.

By the time I stop staring, the light coming through the window has changed—from the faint orange of morning to the strong yellow of afternoon. The tea is cold. I don’t even know if Sherlock has tried to talk to me. My leg aches. A surge of panic and then a sigh of relief brings my shoulders forward as I remember Rosie is with Mrs. Hudson for the day today.

They love each other so much, which fills me with such gratitude, especially on days like this. The chair scrapes against the ground as I push back from the table. I take my mug to rinse. Sherlock must have taken his tea at some point because there isn't a second cup to be found.

I have a feeling I’ll find Sherlock's cup later, half full, most likely by tripping on it and spewing tea everywhere. Footsteps catch my attention, and Sherlock enters the kitchen.

“What was it about?” His voice sounds rough with lack of use.

Still facing the sink, I feign ignorance hoping he hadn’t seen me or tried talking to me earlier, even though I know the chances are slim. “What was what about?” The casual tone I attempt betrays me and comes out flat and disinterested instead.

I can feel the warmth of his body as he comes to stand behind me. “Your leg has been hurting you, and you haven’t moved or said a word all day, even when I addressed you." Sherlock's hand rests on my shoulder. "You had a nightmare last night, but you haven’t ever been quite like this after the ones about Afghanistan, so something new. Something more emotional than physical by your disassociation." A gentle squeeze punctuates his next words. "So tell me, what was it about?”

Knowing he won’t drop it, and not wanting him to, I hang my head between my arms, hands gripping the edge of the counter as I step away from it, body collapsing forward on itself. “St. Bart’s,” I mutter.

I can tell he doesn’t understand because his hand drops away and it takes a moment for him to respond. “Why would you have nightmares about St. Bart’s? You’re a doctor. You see hospitals and patients all the time. You work with me. You were a soldier, so it can’t be the morgue." Sherlock pauses in consideration, and I can hear the rapid-fire whirl of his brain. "Or can it? Did something happen that I don’t know about?”

I take a deep breath, trying to control my unsteady intake, my lungs aching from the pressure sitting within my chest. My hands are numb from the grip they have on the counter, having tightened further as he talked.

He doesn’t understand.

Anger and frustration flood up from my stomach, into my throat. I can feel my face flush with heat. I breathe into the depths of my lungs one more time, holding it there in an attempt to calm myself. Counting to ten, I let the air trickle out.

I turn towards him, his brow wrinkled and a frown pulling down the corners of his mouth. After clenching and unclenching my fist a few times to release some of the tension in them, I trust myself only enough to speak through gritted teeth. “Sherlock, I watched you fall at _least_ seven times last night. Yes, something bloody well happened at St. Bart’s. _You_. I see you... lying there... on the pavement, and there is nothing I can do.” My voice catches, my throat tightening against the words. “There was nothing I could do,” I whisper, broken, as I crumpled in on myself, hand covering my eyes.

I haven’t cried this much since I thought he was dead. Sherlock’s arms wrap around me as they have twice before now. But this time, I throw my arms around him, clinging to his dressing gown, pulling him tight against myself. I need to feel his body beneath my hands, the warmth of his skin, his heartbeat, his breath expanding and constricting in his chest.

I need to feel that he is alive.

He lets me.

We stand there, like that, until my breathing returns to normal.

“John, I am sorry,” Sherlock breathes against my hair.

“I know. I know you are. And I get it. I’m still mad at you for not telling me. But at least now I get why you… went through with it,” I mutter against his chest, avoiding the actual words that have haunted me. Rubbing my face against the fabric of his shirt, I am not ready to let go quite yet, not ready to have the proof of his existence out of arm's reach. But I let him go anyway and take a half step away from him. The loss of his warmth reaches down into my marrow, chilling my heart. “Tea?”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. “Mrs. Hudson still has Rosie. Perhaps something a bit stronger?” I nod once in response, and Sherlock takes down two tumblers and the bourbon. After pouring us two fingers each, I watch his slender fingers recap the bottle, imagining what they might feel like in my hair, across my skin, intertwined with mine, any form of connection.

He hands me one of the tumblers and takes a sip from his own. Sliding past me, Sherlock folds into his leather chair with ease. Knees crossed, an elbow propped against the armrest with a relaxed wrist, he swirls his drink.

“Sit.” He gestures with his glass to my red chair. I take a swig of my own drink, cross to my seat, and plop down, unable to control my descent.

His sharp gaze scrutinizes me before landing on my face and softening. “What do you want to know?” Sherlock asks before taking another sip.

With the weight of my head hitting the back of the chair, I close my eyes. Swirling the amber liquid absentmindedly, the question rolls around in my mind. _What do I want to know?_ As I land on the most pressing need, I lift my head back up, raising the drink to my lips. As I tip the glass to take another mouthful, I challenge him. “Why didn’t you tell me? The real reason this time.” The bourbon burns the back of my throat. My head falls back again, my eyes sliding shut.

It takes him a few seconds before he can respond. When he does, Sherlock's voice is flat, almost pinched with worry, shame, concern. The voice that he uses when he tries to remain completely in control, devoid of emotion.

“I needed you to act realistically. To be in grief.” I scoff at him, shaking my head against the back of the chair, a sardonic smile creasing my face. “And,” Sherlock continues, “and I didn’t think you would be as affected as you were. You never showed indications otherwise.”

My heart clenches, surrounded by a vice. I must have hidden how much I… care for him better than I had thought. _Not-gay-Watson._ “Sherlock.” His name comes out almost in a whine, the grip around my heart squeezing out the word. I roll the glass against my forehead hoping that the sensation will ground me some. “I… There almost wasn’t a me to come back to.”

I hear his teeth click together as I continue on. “You… I… You made me watch, Sherlock.” My voice breaks, the tears once again threatening to fall. “You made me watch, and there was nothing I could do. I lost… everything that day. What was life worth without you in it?”

Before I reveal myself too much, I close back in and take another sip. No matter how much he meant—means—to me, there is still something else eating at me.

“But still, you didn’t trust me. Even after... everything, you didn’t trust me.” The words are soft and accusatory, daring him to deny it.

Sherlock doesn’t. “You’re right. I didn’t. Not when your life was in the balance. Though I didn’t realize how much it still would be.” I lift my head and glare at him then. Sherlock's gaze bores into me, stern, but still seeking forgiveness, still understanding he put me through more than he bargained on, still sorry for the pain he caused. I don't know how to respond to that. So I keep looking at him, staring into his eyes, searching for the question I need answered.

“Do you now?” I say when the words come to me.

“Undoubtedly.” There is no flicker of a lie in his face, pure truth.

The span between us teeters on an edge, waiting to be broken or renewed. Keeping my face void of emotion, and making sure my voice stays strong, I ask my next question, soft and quiet. “What changed?”

“I went away, and you weren’t there.” The reply comes without pause, already on his tongue as if he had known it was coming. He takes a sip of his bourbon, and I follow his lead.

Staring at the swirling liquid in his hand, Sherlock starts explaining in a low, quiet voice, matching mine, honoring the tentative balance. “I talked to you every day while I was away. In my mind palace." His tone becomes somber as he continues. “So many times and in so many ways, you kept me alive." Turning his gaze back to me, Sherlock's face is open, all his trust and care pouring through. "I wouldn’t have made it back if it wasn’t for you.”

I take a moment to process his confession. It sinks through my skin and permeates my bloodstream, making its way to and through the blockade that had formed around my heart. I was his reason for returning. I had been with him the whole time he was away. When the wall finally falls, I am left raw and vulnerable.

Finishing my glass, I stand up and pat him on the shoulder in a stiff manner, trying to reinstate some of the friendly boundaries that once sat between us. Sherlock looks up at me, still open, and the rest of it crumbles.

A truth, though not the one that so desperately wants to be spoken, tears roughly from my lips in a whisper. “And I’m so glad you did." Losing my nerve to continue, to lay it all before him, I squeeze his shoulder in an attempt to flee from the thoughts of what it would have been like if he hadn't returned. “I need to go get Rosie from Mrs. Hudson," I say as I turn toward the door.

“No.” Sherlock stops me from walking away with a hand over mine. “When I saw you this morning, I asked her if she could watch Rosie for the night, or if she could have Molly pick her up to do so." He glances at the space between our feet, unsure if his actions would be welcome. "You have the night off. You need it. You haven’t slept well.” Relief washes through me. I love Rosie, but I know I need to take care of myself so I can be the best for her. After everything that has happened, she deserves the best there is to offer, which, right now, is not me.

Grasping his fingers in mine, I shut my eyes before whispering a brief “thank you” and dropping his hand. Each touch is harder to release than the last. I collect our empty tumblers and place them by the sink. “Thai?”

“I’ll call,” Sherlock replies, pulling out his phone.

Once he hangs up and I finish rinsing the glasses, I look back over my shoulder to him still in his chair, cross-legged and relaxed. It is like a scene from before, and a smile tugs at my lips.

Mustering up as much courage and nonchalance as I can, I ask, “Will you play?”

Sherlock uncrosses his legs and stands in one fluid movement to retrieve his case. After putting rosin on his bow, a melody begins to ring through the flat. It calms the storm brewing beneath my ribs and behind my eyes. I finish drying the glasses and end up back in my chair, in the same position I was before, filled with an altogether different emotion now. Sherlock faces the window, swaying as he plays.

The doorbell rings, and I jerk awake. I hadn’t realized I was even falling asleep. While Sherlock keeps playing his soothing songs, I go downstairs to retrieve the food. After preparing the plates for us, I walk to the couch and set them on the coffee table. He puts his violin down and pretends to join me for dinner, which consists of him pushing food around his plate and stealing forkfuls from mine. Without having said a word, we finish eating, a comfortable and full silence, elbows bumping and knees brushing. The ease between us beginning to return. Knowing the request without me having to speak it again, Sherlock goes back to his playing,.

After cleaning up, I return to my chair. It’s a safe place to rest, listening to Sherlock play and knowing he is alive and back in Baker Street. Better than in my room without this, without him, without Rosie. His music wraps around me. Like a warm, weighty blanket, it pulls me into rocking streams, warm arms, small smiles, and dark curls. I don’t fall into a deep sleep as I listen to him play through the hours, standing vigil over me, but I do rest more completely than I have in weeks. Lulled by the security, I mutter, “This is what I missed the most while you were gone.”

Sherlock's voice, low and sure, fills the room without being much louder than a whisper. “I know. I did too.” Our eyes find each other, and a drowsy smile forms on my face. A soft one is given in return.

Using what is left of my energy, I tear my gaze from his and start up a fire. The room—diffused with yellow light, filled with warmth, and the smell of home in winter—creates a cocoon of safety and becomes a place of healing. I turn to see Sherlock still looking at me, still playing. His eyes glow in the dim light and glance away for a brief moment before returning, searching my own. I can see the sharp lines overtaking the soft flow of his body as he prepares to say something. Dropping his bow and violin to his sides, Sherlock faces me, shoulders rounded with the weight of his thoughts. With one last glance to the floor, he presses his lips into a thin line before asking, “Do you think you will ever be able to forgive me?”

After a moment to consider my response, I ask, “Do you remember when I told you that I had asked you for one more miracle?” He nods once and continues playing, knowing that the music will keep us both calm. “Well, I got it. Twice. And I wouldn’t take it back or exchange it for anything. Ever." Sherlock's gaze finds mine, swirling with hope and fear. The sight swells my heart, and the corner of my mouth turns up as I walk closer to him, still out of reach, knowing that right now touch would reveal more than I want. "So yes, I do think I already have. A long time ago. But that doesn’t mean it still doesn’t hurt sometimes.” He scans my face before inhaling sharply through his nose.

“Quite right.” The words burst from his mouth with a rough nod, in dissonance to the music and the space between us. He turns back around, swaying once again to his music, and I can hear a whisper of “thank you”, more breath than sound. That same clenched feeling grips my heart.

Without thinking, my feet lead me to the kitchen. Kettle, two mugs, two bags, milk for me, sugar for him, steep the bags, stir the tea. I smile down at my own hands holding the mugs, happy for it to be two again. It took me so long to unlearn that habit, and it came again so easily when I moved back to Baker Street. It was almost like my body knew what my mind did not. I belong here. With him.

Turning toward the sitting room, I catch Sherlock facing away from me, dark curls aglow in the firelight, body straight, strong, and graceful. I pause to take it in, remembering what it was like for him to teach me to dance. The feel of his back beneath my palm.

With a shake of my head to clear out the reverie, I move to stand in front of him and hand over the tea. Sherlock places his bow and violin in one hand and takes the tea with the other, fingers brushing against mine. With a nod of gratitude, he raises his mug in cheers and takes a sip before folding himself into his chair as I fall into mine.

Again, when the tea is finished, Sherlock resumes his playing. But this time, after the mugs are rinsed, I grab my duvet and shuffle back downstairs and into my chair. I tuck my Union Jack pillow under my head, and settle in, ready to sleep, rocked there by the music. With all my senses filled as they were, filled with the rightness of home, I know I will sleep without nightmares for at least tonight.


	4. Magnussen's Office

Sunlight streams through the broad windows, easing me from my sleep. I squeeze my eyes shut against the bright light before feeling the crick in my neck from sleeping in the chair. Rubbing the sore spot, I unfurl myself, coming aware to all my aching muscles. With a yawn and a stretch, I open my eyes and see a cup of tea already sitting on the table for me. The steam warms my face as I take a sip.

Sherlock must already be awake then. A glance at the clock confirms my hopes. It's only seven, and Mrs. Hudson won’t expect me before eight. I can take the time to wake up properly. A smirk twitches at the corner of my mouth.

“There is toast on the counter if you plan on eating,” a low voice rumbles from the kitchen. Sherlock is hunched over his microscope. Already engrossed in a project for the day it appears.

“Ta,” I mutter, shuffling my way over, still bundled in my duvet as if it were a parka. I’ll actually get into normal clothes today—but after a little breakfast. As I am about to take a bite, Sherlock looks at me from over the eyepiece

“Do you have others?”

I try to follow his train of thought but fail utterly.

“What?” I ask, a mouthful of toast distorting the word.

“Afghanistan, St. Bart’s. Are there others?” Impatience seeps through his question.

I freeze mid-chew, staring at him, baffled. Looking away, I put my toast back onto the plate and dust the crumbs from my fingertips. To ground myself, I grip my knees and stare resolutely back at him.

“Why do you want to know?” I ask with as much control as possible.

“I am intrigued to determine if we have any that overlap.” His voice betrays his benign inquiry. There is more than that, but I play along.

“You have others, then?”

“Yes.” A stoic reply. Sherlock is no longer looking through the lens of the microscope but meets my gaze instead. A storm appears to brew behind his gaze, one of confusion, doubt, and of pain.

“So do I,” I reply, matching his tone, neither of us comfortable with the conversation but knowing it needs said. “The Pool, Baskerville, Bonfire Night. To name a few.”

As he leans back in his seat, fingertips pressed together and resting against his lower lip, Sherlock responds, “I have those three as well. Tell me, do they play out exactly as the events occur as you experienced them? Or are they altered in some way?”

Pushing out my chair, I stand up and put my plate with the uneaten toast by the sink. “I don’t want to talk about this right now. Yesterday was hard enough, and I have to pick up Rosie soon.” My voice comes out short and curt, intending to put an end to the conversation. I pick up my duvet pooled on the chair and head for the stairs. Sherlock remains silent, watching as I move around him.

As I leave the kitchen, he says, “Let me know when you are ready. Please." The please has the same nervousness, the same plea, as the first time we talked about the nightmares. Sherlock's eyes bore into the back of my head as I stand halted in the doorway. In a quiet voice, almost a whisper, he adds, “I don’t know how to make them stop.” Even as my legs turn to jelly and an aching weight presses into my chest, I nod once and walk upstairs to get ready for the day.

The morning passes by in a whirlwind of Rosie. Pick up, change, breakfast, play, squeals, and toddles. By the time lunch rolls around, the conversation of the morning has been whisked away from my mind. I put her down for a nap and find Sherlock in his thinking position, flat out on the couch, dressing gown and all.

He seems to be organizing his mind palace, so I make us tea. Kettle, two mugs, two bags, milk for me, sugar for him, steep the bags, stir the tea. I place his mug on the table near the sofa and settle into my own chair. Picking up my current book, I flip through the pages to find my spot and begin to read while sipping at my drink. About fifteen minutes later, Sherlock speaks without having moved at all.

“I can’t delete them, John. These memories. They keep showing up in places they aren’t supposed to be. I've even tried locking them up instead. It’s distracting and unacceptable. How am I supposed to focus, to think, to work, John? How? How do I stop it?” By the end of his short tirade, he sounds frustrated and pleading. Never good words to associate with the detective and not words that usually are. It unsettles me. Putting down my book, I turn towards him.

“Well, it sounds like _you_ are the one who needs to talk,” I urge with more conviction than I feel. Sherlock talking about his feelings, that'll be the day.

Turning his gaze towards me, he concedes. A small “perhaps" being his only acquiescence. A muffled wail descends the stairs.

“Hold that thought, yeah?” I say as I stand to rescue Rosie from the crib. He closes his eyes and lays his head back as it was before.

By the time Rosie is down again for the evening, I have completely forgotten about the conversation with Sherlock, yet again. Children seem to do that. He has remained on the couch throughout the whole evening, not moving, not responding. Settling into my chair to read for a short while, I know I should head to bed soon, especially since the crick in my neck hasn't let up. But the story absorbs me, and I startle when Sherlock speaks again.

“I don’t think I will be sleeping tonight if you would like me to play again. You have fewer nightmares when I do,” he offers in an offhand way. Still recovering from the sudden conversation, it takes a moment for the words to sink in. When they do, a shiver runs down my spine.

“You knew. That’s why you played the first time we talked about the nightmares. You knew it would be hard for me having brought up Afghanistan.” _And you cared_ , I finish in my head.

“Of course. I noticed almost immediately after you moved in. But you haven’t said. Do you want me to play?” A gruffness bleeds into Sherlock's voice as he talks, a mild annoyance at the repetition.

A thought pops into my head, remembering our earlier conversation. “Only if you talk while you play.” He considers this, rises, and preps his violin.

“There are a few scenarios for each of the three events you mentioned,” he starts, “Some align with the actual events, some do not. However, Moriarty is the constant in all versions. He is the villain in the fairytale of my dreams. Perverting them, twisting them into these nightmares.” The music begins to stutter through the room, agitated and nervous, arrhythmic and staccato. “I would have assumed that seeing him kill himself would be enough for my subconscious to be rid of his torment.”

The sounds coming from his violin, sharp and piercing, are in direct contrast to the sound of his deep, calm voice. I trust the violin more. Then, the sounds slow down, become legato, change to a minor key—turn morose. “In every version, I don’t make it in time. I lose. I lose everything that is important to me.” He glances over at me as if checking to see if I fault him for failing, for being human. A mournful cord cries out from beneath his fingertips, and a pressure surrounds my heart, overwhelming my chest, my breath caught with it, waiting for the tension to release. It's all too much. The trust, the glance, the swirling emotions in his eyes and through the air, the mere implication of my importance to him.

I can’t do this.

I turn to face away from him. I want to help, god, how I want to help, but I can’t without showing too much. He’d know. And I can’t let that happen. Then _I’d_ lose everything. _"I consider myself married to my work._ " That's all it can be, and I can't lose him by pushing him where he can not go.

Regaining my breath and waiting until I trust my voice not to betray me, I gather myself enough to say, “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I can’t do this tonight. I’m going to bed.” The music stops with an ascending screech.

“Why?” Sherlock demands. With a shake of my head, I walk upstairs, taking care not to wake Rosie. “John.” The quietness of his voice halts my steps. “I’m sorry, too.” I nod, knowing I can’t assuage his fears though that is all I want to do, and continue walking away. The music stops.

Tip-toeing around, I get ready for the night and crawl into bed. As I lay down, I listen to my daughter’s soft, steady breathing. It soothes my aching heart enough to drift me off to sleep even though the nightmares will await me.

_Standing still on the pavement, heart pounding and clouds of breath puffing into the dark night, I search frantically. For what, I don't know._

_Until._

_I hear a gunshot in the distance, and I know I am too late. I run in the direction of the sound, hoping against hope._

_I turn the corner into an ally, and there he is, face up, blood blossoming from the hole in his chest. I start applying pressure, thinking, hoping to God, I can stop the bleeding._

_His body vanishes in whirls of smoke beneath my hands, and the ground below me opens up. I fall, landing in the bottom of a well._

_Eurus._

_But this time, Sherlock isn’t here to get me out. He's already dead and gone, turned to mist. The water starts rising, and I hear a familiar voice calling for me. A voice that speaks of a cold fog in springtime, one that I heard for too long after she was gone. The water swirls around, drowning me._

_Everything tilts, and I fall into a waiting room. A surgeon walks up to me and shakes his head. I start running through the halls again, needing to see him. I round the corner to find an open door and see Molly raising a scalpel to his pale chest. She hears me and turns a mournful face._

_“It’s what he would have wanted,” she says, turning back to make the incision._

_As the cut starts, Sherlock looks at me, reaches out, and cries, “John!”_

_I begin to run to him, but everything fades away, replaced by Magnussen’s office. I hear another gunshot. Sprinting up the stairs two at a time, I plead for my umpteenth chance._

_There he is, face up, blood blossoming from the hole in his chest. I start applying pressure, thinking, hoping to God, this time, I can stop the bleeding._

_He looks into my eyes, raising a bloody hand to my cheek, “John,” he breaths, before his hand falls away and his eyes roll back. I hear the echo of a familiar dark laugh, the one she always used when she outsmarted me._

Cool hands frame my face. A deep, soft voice calls my name. The laughter fades away, and my eyes blink open to see pale blue ones piercing into my own. Breathing rapid, I can feel the sweat clinging to my skin. “Sherlock?” I mumble through my quick, short breaths. A crinkle forms between my brows, and my gaze flicks to the crib, Sherlock's hands still holding my head in place. “Rosie?”

“It’s alright. I got to you before she woke up. Now, come.” He drags me from bed by my shoulders, but I hesitate at the door. Before I can voice my concern, Sherlock responds in whispered frustration, “I have the monitor. Come _on_."

Finally, I follow, still trying to catch my breath, shuffling after him, thankful I hadn’t woken Rosie. By the time I get to the kitchen, Sherlock has a glass of water ready for me. While I drink it down, he says, “I heard you from down here. I hadn’t gone to bed yet, but Rosie must have been in a deep sleep for her to not wake up.” He pauses, taking in my stance, my breath, my face. “You were calling for Mary.”

Putting my glass on the counter, I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Not calling for, yelling at.”

He tips his head down with a furrowed brow, avoiding my gaze. “For dying to save me when she should still be around for you, for Rosie. You think she made the wrong choice. I shouldn't be surprised.”

I look at him bewildered.

“Sherlock, she _shot_ you. You _died_. I lost you, and somehow you came back a second time.” With a deep breath to steady myself, I continue. “I dream about that night at Magnussen’s office. Getting upstairs and not being sure if you were going to make it. In my dreams, you never do.”

When I look at him, he is frozen. The only other time I have seen Sherlock like this was when I asked him to be my best man. It’s when he reconfigures something in his mind palace, something he thought wouldn’t ever be possible but turned out to just be highly improbable. Even in the midst of my residual adrenaline spike, I can’t help but smile when he does this.

“Oh,” is all he says at first. A deep wrinkle furrows his brow. "Then... why did you go back? Why did you go after her? Why did you blame me?"

The smile drops from my face, and my eyes slide closed. Yet another conversation I'm not ready to have tonight. But this time, this time I can't _not_ respond. He deserves to know. To know that I've changed.

"Sherlock. As to the last question, I've already told you. I never should have. Period. As for the rest? The simple answer is that I am a bonafide arse. There is no way around it." Sherlock opens his mouth to respond, but I put up a hand to stop him. I need to get this out. He needs to understand.

"The more complex answer has a lot more to do with what I think about myself, the way I was raised, how I handle my anger, the things I try not to admit to myself." With a shrug of my shoulder, I concede. "That's part of the reason for all the therapy. After... after the hospital, I knew... I knew I couldn't pretend anymore. I couldn't let myself slide through the sessions. And then after Eurus? God knows I needed it after that whole debacle."

Sherlock flinches at the mention of his sister but doesn't interrupt.

"These past few months, I have found a therapist I like. That I trust. We've been able to... uncover a lot." Rubbing a hand across the back of my neck, I catch Sherlock roll his eyes.

"So that's where you've been going on Wednesdays."

With a half chuckle, I say, "Yeah. And I am going to keep going. I don't want to hurt you. Ever again. So... I'll keep working through it. I've already learned a lot. Double sessions at the beginning. We’re now at just the once a week."

Sherlock studies my face and gives one short nod. "I've... noticed a change. But that still didn't answer my questions."

Tired and not ready to have a deep, drawn-out conversation about why I had to be with Mary because the one I love would never love me back, I mutter, “I can't explain any better than that right now, Sherlock. Maybe later. But I should go back to bed.” I look towards the doorway, to the stairs, but I can't move. I stand there and just...look back up at him.

Sherlock takes a step, closing the distance between us. “You don’t sleep well alone.”

“I won’t be. Rosie’s there,” I breathe, the space between us calling for the quiet, my feet taking root into the floor, unable to flee even if I wanted to.

His eyebrow raises. “You know what I mean.”

“I’m not sure I do.”

Looking down at me, somehow even closer than before, Sherlock quietly but sternly says, “John, sleep in my bed. I can wake you if you have any more dreams. Or you, I. Nothing more than that. It will prevent you from waking up Rosie like you have been throughout the past month. You know as well as I that's why she's been so cranky lately. Let her sleep.” As he presses his lips into a thin line, he sighs. "And if your fragile masculinity can't see to it to share my bed, I am more than willing to take the couch. It would still be better than waking Rosie, and your neck can't take another night on the furniture."

It sounds so easy when he puts it like that. But I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep him from finding the truth about my feelings, even so, he is right. It is better for Rosie. And it does sound nice, perhaps... before I can finish my thought, the words are rolling off my tongue in a teasing whisper. “Ok, but I'm not kicking you out of your own bed. I was in the army for godssake. I can share a bed. But, can you?”

“I offered, didn’t I? Don’t make me repeat myself.” With that, Sherlock whirls and strides to his bedroom, expecting me to follow. And, as always, I do.


	5. Moriarty

The whole world tilts around me and remains that way even as I start walking back to my bedroom.

Is it too early to refer to it as our bedroom? What am I thinking, of course it is. This is just for tonight. But what if it’s not? What if it is more than one night? No, no, no. Stop. I can’t think that way. I can’t let my hope run amok. It won’t do.

Entering the bedroom, I freeze. I have no idea what to do next. Without my consent, my body starts fluttering around, tidying things around me. A hand rests on my arm.

“Sherlock, it’s fine. If you want to take it back, it’s fine. It’s all fine.” I turn to look at John then, his eyes full of calm, concern, trust. I still don’t know how that happened, how I gained back any of his trust.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I say, returning that trust he so blatantly puts before me. He takes a half step back, that damn wrinkle beginning to make an appearance.

“Do you want me to leave? Again, it’s fine. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable in your own space.” How does he do that, put me all aflutter and at complete ease at the same time? I am _not_ a love-sick school girl in some ridiculous novel.

“No, stay. As I already said..." I pinch the bridge of my nose in mild irritation, "and you know how I hate repeating myself, I don’t know how to do this." Throwing my hands in the air to imply the whole situation, I clarify. "I don’t know the expectations of routine or of sleeping arrangements or of clothing choices. I just don’t know. I’ve never done this before, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want you here.”

John's face softens, the confusion melting from his features. With the hint of a smile and a straightening of his spine, he takes another half step back, this time not to distance himself but to establish even ground.

“Alright, data. You need to know how this is going to play out, yeah?” I nod once in agreement. Gesturing around the room, John starts to explain. “This is your space, and you are welcoming me into it. You get to call the shots on almost everything, though I will let you know if something makes me uncomfortable, yeah? We’ll take turns using the bathroom to get ready and change and such. I sleep in a t-shirt and bottoms. And based on how you flounce around the house, I trust you do the same, most nights, at least.”

The teasing smile on John's face doesn't quite match the depth of desire in his eyes as his pupils blow wide. The sheet. He must be thinking of the sheet. Naughty man.

Clearing his throat and glancing away, he asks, “Do you have a preference for side?” Pointing, I indicate the side away from the door, knowing that he does better being able to see the entrance without an obstructed view. It doesn't help that I tend to sleep in the middle of the bed, removing the whole idea of a side, but I'm sure I'll manage.

“Alright then, I guess this is me.” John plops down on the edge of the bed and looks up at me while waving a hand toward the bathroom. “Go on and get ready. I’ll get everything settled in here.” Not quite sure what he means by that, I do what he says anyway, still in my clothes from the night before, and brush my teeth. Using the space to collect my thoughts, I stare into the mirror.

My curls are wild, sticking up every which way. Rolling my eyes, I try to pat them down into something less crazy looking, but to no avail. With a few deep breaths to calm my nerves, I turn to the frosted door leading into my bedroom. My hand on the knob, I breathe in once more, steeling myself for what could, would be a long night. There is a minuscule chance of me sleeping. Too much new information to process. Sharing a bed. John next to me. Attending therapy. Mary. What on earth did he mean by all that?

I swing the door open before me. My room is awash in the warm, fluorescent light of the lamp on the nightstand, catching the gold and silver hues of John’s hair resting atop the pillow. He looks up at me through his eyelashes. I stare down at him, and he smiles.

“This help?” he gestures with his head, and my eyes follow. John had rearranged the blankets using a spare from the sitting room so that we each had one. I wouldn’t have to share my duvet. He must have pulled in an extra sheet as well.

It’s perfect.

“It’s fine,” I say as I walk around to the other side and crawl into bed. Cocooning myself into my blankets, I attempt to take up less space than I usually would. John chuckles softly.

“What?” I bite at him, looking out over the edge of my duvet nest,turned toward the center I still long to occupy.

“Nothing.” John rolls onto his left shoulder with care to look at me, propping his head on his hand. One side of his mouth turns up in a teasing smile. “I knew you were a blanket hog.”

Glaring at him through slitted eyes, I give a huff of discontent and pull my duvet higher in efforts to block him out. “This is why I don’t share my sleeping space.” My gruff voice is muffled by the blanket.

Not reacting to my frustration other than to become even more smug in the soft light, John teases, “I can still leave.” My eyes grow wide with disbelief. “That’s what I thought,” and he rolls onto his back, one hand under his head, the other resting on his stomach, eyes closed.

The light dances across his features, letting me memorize the planes of his face in ways I haven't been allowed before. John, asleep, or nearly so, in my bed, next to me. The thought is baffling. Never would I have believed we would end up here, like this. It's more than I had hoped for, especially after my return and his marriage to Mary. But all of that is being put behind us now.

But what had John meant about the complex answer being what he thinks about himself, the way he was raised, how he handles his anger? It still didn't explain why he stayed with Mary. Or, did it?

His relationship with Harry is off and on again, as is both their relationships with alcohol. John avoids speaking about his father, and only rarely mentions his mother. Perhaps there is...

Without even opening his eyes to confirm his suspicions, John interrupts my train of thought. “You know, the whole point of this exercise was to sleep. Stop staring at me and turn off the light.”

Startled from my reverie, I reach behind and turn off the lamp. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, and all I can hear is John’s steady breathing and my own heart pounding. “Sherlock, if this is stressing you out or if you can’t sleep, I promise I won’t be upset if you ask me to leave. I honestly don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

Speaking into the darkness, honoring the quietness of the night, the honesty it allows, I say, “No. Don’t leave. I am uncomfortable, but not because of you. Its... I just don’t want to dream when all it gives me are nightmares.” _I'd rather watch you sleep all night, keep watch over you, figure out what all this means_ , I don't add aloud.

“That’s partly why I’m here, isn’t it? To wake you from them?” The question, spoken quiet and low, rings with a hint of confusion.

“Yes. But that won’t stop me from experiencing them.” The truth slips from me in my distraction. John turns to look at me then, searching my eyes in the dark, and settles on a response.

“I suppose that’s true. Would... would it help for you to talk through them with me? I promise I won’t run this time.” The darkness settles around us, comforting in its weight and protection. Rosie’s muffled breathing comes through the monitor, and John’s own breathing and the rustle of blankets offer their warmth. It feels like home.

Closing my eyes, I focus on those sounds, drawing reassurance from them, from the proof of life they provide, and decide to take the plunge. “He takes you from me, John, he wins. I died and destroyed his network, I was tortured to prevent that. Even when the events have nothing to do with him, my subconscious makes him the puppeteer, the spider in the web, even in death. And I lose you. I always lose you. In every one, in some way, I lose you. The Rehab, The Pool, Baskerville, Norbury, Bonfire Night, Serbia, Eurus, Culverton. In every version, I lose you.” Out of breath, the last three words come out in a hush.

Silence encases us, and the bed shifts. In one swift movement, I am wrapped in strong arms, a forceful grip. The crushing weight reminds me that I am not alone, that Moriarty hasn't won. As my face presses against John’s chest, he rubs a hand up and down my back, my body shaking as the fear washes through me. This hasn’t happened since Baskerville.

I hadn’t realized how tense I was until my shoulders relax under his ministrations. As my breathing returns to normal and the shaking subsides, I can hear a soft shushing coming from above me, a cheek cushioned against my head.

Murmured words brush against my hair, barely audible. “That’s what mine are about, too. Losing the people I love.”

My whole body stiffens. And then so does John’s.

Still wrapped in his embrace, my face tucked into his chest, I remind myself that we’ve said this before—when he asked me to be best man, when I made my speech. That’s all this means.

But then, why did he freeze up? “Do you mean…”

John interrupts me with a rushed whisper, “Yes. I... I didn’t mean to tell you, and you don’t have to respond. I swear I don’t want this to change anything. I know you don't do that sort of thing.”

I push back against his arms, and they loosen around me but don’t pull away. Shrouded as his face is in the dark, I do my best to search out his gaze. “Don’t want it to change things or concerned it will change poorly?"

As his eyes flit back and forth between mine, John tries to ascertain my true meaning. He doesn’t seem to find it, but my brave John still responds, “Just as you keep saying that you can’t lose me, I am lost without you. I’ve tried it twice now, and I can’t do it. So yes, I am worried I am going to ruin everything and still lose you.” While he talks, a small smirk spreads across my face and into my eyes.

“And if I told you that there was no reason for you to be concerned?” That adorable furrow appears between his brows.

“What?” John whispers as he pulls further away.

I raise an eyebrow. “You know I hate repeating myself.”

“No, not what as in I didn’t hear you, what as in what did you mean by that?”

Annoyance gone, I search his face, hoping to find the words, to tap into his bravery. And then, “You won’t lose me, John. That is, if you’ll have me.” I hear his breath catch and am enveloped once again. “John?”

“Yes. Yes, Sherlock. I want you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want this." A deep breath rustles my hair. "It took me so long to admit that. And then, even after I had, I couldn't be sure you wanted it." Burying his nose into my curls, John confesses, "At some point, I gave up on needing more. Just being with you, here, at Baker Street was, always will be, enough." As his arms loosen their hold, I can feel the tension crawling back between us. "But... I come with Rosie, with baggage, with nightmares, and I am not always easy to get along with. I have severe anger problems, and I yell at chip and pin machines." John glances down at me with a smirk as he says, "Potential partners should know the worst about each other.”

A smile blossoms across my face, and I don't hold it back, feeling the content flood through me at his words, at the memories. But even as the wave rises, it’s now my turn to pull away from him, hopefully for that last time.

“John, before this goes any further, you need to know something. You were right. That first night when I told you I wasn’t looking for anyone, I meant it. I don’t do relationships.” He huffs but doesn’t interrupt or pull away. “I’ve never been interested in anyone until you. I don’t know what it will be like, what I will be comfortable with. I like this, right here, right now. But I don’t know if there will be anything else.” John blinks at me. Twice. A third time.

“Sherlock. I don’t want to do anything you aren’t comfortable with. As I told you before. It’s all fine. We will figure it out." His hand strokes down the length of my arm, reassuring. "Together. If I ever do something to make you feel uncomfortable, you need to let me know. I’ll do my best to always ask, but still." Tipping my chin up to look in my eyes, John's gaze demands a promise. "Please tell me.”

My heart swells in a welcome ache, feeling as if it will escape from my chest altogether. That John would still want this, want me. “Ok.” I let myself be pulled back in close, relishing in the warmth, the closeness, the sentiment.

His chest rumbles against my cheek when he asks his next question. “Is it alright if I kiss you?”

Considering the request, I realize I only have Janine as a frame of reference. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t have much to go on.”

Impossibly, well, improbably, John pulls me in tighter for a brief second, somehow hugging me while already holding me. Then he ventures to ask, “Can I start with one on the top of your head? That’s all I was thinking for now anyway. We do need to get some sleep at some point here.” His chuckle sounds deep and full within his chest, and his cheek rubs against the top of my head as he talks.

I nuzzle deeper into him, inhaling the smell of his laundry detergent and sweat. It calms me and bolsters me in equal amounts. I whisper, “Alright.”

Tightening his hold on me once more, John's lips press into my curls. As he holds me there, he sighs, relaxing into our space. His warm breath against my scalp sends shivers down my spine.

“Alright?” he mutters, lips still pressed to my head.

“Alright.” Even I can hear the smile in my tone.

“Good.”

Trying to settle, John shifts to get comfortable. When I realize he is on his left shoulder, I nudge him, pushing on his right one and urging him to turn. After slipping his arms out from under me, he rolls onto his other side, and I curl myself around him, pulling him into my blanket nest.

I rest a hand on his hip, fingers stiff, still unsure quite how all this is supposed to work. “Better?”

With a nod and a hum of agreement, John falls back into me, his weight a welcome presence against my chest. He slips his hand over mine and tucks them both under his chin. As my eyes fall shut, a smile on my face, I know this will be the first of many nights like this.


	6. The Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, y'all! My original Part 6 was only 550 words and worked so much better blended with Part 7 as an epilogue, so. I had to write y'all a whole new piece! It took a bit. But it also means, CHECK THE TAGS. I've updated them.

When John comes home for his appointment, it’s clear something weighs on his mind. Babbling in her highchair, Rosie mushes her peas onto the tray, against her palm, and—thankfully—some into her mouth. After both of us glance at her, inexplicable smiles on our faces, we find one another's gazes again. John’s smile falters, and my brow knits together, trying to determine the cause. With a cough, John breaks eye contact and hangs his coat over the back of his chair. But my stare stays trained on him, unable to suss out the problem.

As John leans against the red chair, his head hanging, he flexes his fist a few times before straightening his back and looking back to me.

“My therapist would like to meet you, if you’re amenable. She says you can come to the beginning of the next meeting.”

Searching his face, his posture, I tread with caution. “And you? Are you amenable?”

John's face darkens, brow knitting together. “What? Of course. Of course, I am.” As he steps closer to the kitchen, his face softens. “I’d honestly love to have you there, but again. Only if you are agreeable.”

With a last once over, I can see John means it. He wants me to come with him. A flurry of apprehension flutters through my stomach. His therapist.

Am I amenable? No.

But.

Can I do this for him?

My eyes slide shut, and John takes over feeding Rosie, her delighted shriek expressing her opinion on the matter. Playing through several scenarios in my head, I can’t settle on the most probable, too many variables.

“What’s the purpose of my attending?”

John’s head shoots up from his position over Rosie to look at me with confusion. “Well, I think so she has a better understanding of who you are and of our relationship.” As Rosie tugs on his ear to regain his attention, he grimaces before letting his face relax, a tinge of disappointment sitting behind his eyes. “Honestly Sherlock, if you’re uncomfortable you don’t have to come.”

“If it will benefit your process, of course I’ll attend for however long you desire my presence.”

The corner of John’s mouth turns up in that smile he gives when something pleases him and tries to hide it. “Alright then. I’ll let her know for the next session then.”

With a nod, I busy myself by grabbing a wet flannel to wipe Little Watson’s face and hands. John frees her from the seat and holds her on his hip, smiling as he watches me. As I clean off the mushed peas, John holding her squirming form, he reaches up and places a quick peck to my cheek with a soft “Thank you.”

———

“Ahh. So you're the one I’ve heard so much about, Mr. Holmes. Pleasure to meet you.” Nancy smiles at us both as she offers a hand to me, and I return the gesture in brisk nature. After shooting a withering glance at John, skin itching with the discomfort of the situation, I take a moment to appraise Dr. Nancy Shao and the surroundings.

Well-educated, a focus with veterans with PTSD, living comfortably but within her means, trying to hide her smoking habit from her husband. Oh. And her mother.

The room has a staged attempt at comfort that makes it difficult to not roll my eyes. But with a second glance to Nancy, her dark eyes speak to an honest desire for hospitality, for trust.

She settles into the armchair on one side of the coffee table and indicates for us to sit on the chairs or couch opposite. John turns a questioning gaze to me, letting me decide on our seats. Unsure how much or how little closeness is expected in an environment like this, I choose the couch, allowing John to fill in the gaps on this particular social nicety. He sits next to me with a small space between us but close enough for our knees to press together. As he relaxes into the back cushion, he crosses an ankle over his knee.

Seeing him so at ease helps reduce some of my tension.

Nancy glances up from the notebook on her lap and smirks at the scene we must make. She readjusts her glasses, pushes an errant, sleek, black strand back into place, and sets the book to the side.

“First off. Congratulations! John tells me you’ve recently become a couple. I’m very happy for you both,” she says with a full smile, nodding to each of us in turn.

With a quick look at John, a grin twitches at the corner of my mouth, and he grins back, reaching for my hand, intertwining our fingers and resting it on his thigh.

Tearing my gaze away from him, I turn back to Nancy and clear my throat. “Thank you. I am as well.”

“I’m sure you are. I also wanted to thank you for all the help and support you’ve given him. John’s made great strides over his time here with all the work he has put into this. He tells me you’ve particularly given him a lot of help with his nightmares.” A squeeze to my hand punctuates her words with his agreement.

Giving John a mild look of confusion, I respond to Nancy. “Well, yes. I certainly have endeavored too. But, John is the one who began all the business with the nightmares.”

As John squirms and gives a small cough, Nancy tilts her head and asks, “What do you mean?”

Uncomfortable, I move to draw my hand away from John, my brow furrowing. He catches my eye and gives a small nod of encouragement, re-tangling our fingers together. I turn my gaze back to Nancy and explain.

“Well, he was the one to initiate the conversations. He told me about dreams he’s had of Afghanistan in hopes that I might open up about my own. Since then, we’ve talked through them and attempted to reassure each other amidst them.”

Over the rim of her glasses, she turns a pointed look to John. “Oh, did he now? He never mentioned that. Nor the fact you suffer from nightmares as well.”

“It’s not mine to tell,” John responds in a quick, gruff manner.

“Quite right.” Nancy smiles in agreement. “Our stories are our own.” Fixing her gaze back on me, she asks, “Out of interest, you have no obligation to answer, what are your nightmares about, Sherlock?”

The freedom of choice surprises me, even though it shouldn’t. It’s not my session after all. But the question is easy enough, and I decide to respond in part. “In some shape or other, losing John and Rosie. Be it my experience in a drug rehab, or the torture I experienced in Serbia, or one of the many times either John or I almost died, I dream of losing them.”

A quiet settles over the room, only to be broken a moment later.

“Well, those would be quite the harrowing experiences. Thank you for sharing that with me. It is understandable you would want to process through them, and you’re naturally using your dreams to do that.”

With a sharp nod of understanding, I ask, “Is there anything else? I don’t wish to take up John’s time.”

She inclines her head to John and lets him respond.

He angles toward me. “Unless there is anything you want to ask, I think that’s all. Wait for me?”

Squeezing his hand in affirmation before sliding away, I move outside to entertain myself with some emailed cases.

After the session is over, John comes out, his eyes showing a hint of puffiness.

“Alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m alright. It’s always just... a bit raw afterwards.”

I tuck my hands into my coat pockets and lead the way through the main door. Once we are in a cab, John ventures to ask, “So, you seemed pretty open in there, which I assume means you’re pretty comfortable with her, yeah? I… I didn’t think you would be, which is why I’ve never asked this before. But, are you interested in seeing her for yourself? I mean, you’ve got a lot to process too.”

With a stern glare in his direction, I see only openness and concern for me in his eyes. Not a trick then. Not planned. Staring out the window, I consider his question and decide it may be a benefit, if not for me, for John, for Rosie. I concede. “Only if you’ll come with me. Not for the session, of course, but just... be present.”

John's eyes light up, and he gives a stiff nod. “Yeah, of course I will. I’ll see if she has one before or after mine so we can go together.”

“That would be agreeable.”

~

A couple weeks later finds us both back at Nancy’s office. After my session, I sit in the room outside, waiting for Sherlock to finish. My heart light and my brain foggy after the topic today, Chinese food sounds like the perfect companion meal to our duel session. With Rosie at Greg and Molly’s tonight, perhaps even a bottle of wine. A smile blooms on my face as I start to make plans for dinner and a cuddle, maybe some telly. Pulling out my mobile, I phone our favorite place and order takeaway for when Sherlock is done. Then, I settle in for a little nap leaning against the wall. One thing both medical school and the army taught me that continues to come in handy—nap when, where, and how you can.

When Sherlock exits the office, the opening of the door jolts me awake. He offers a surprisingly true smile to Dr. Shao before a dark cloud settles over him.

He strides past me and down the stairs to the main door. With a bewildered look, I silently ask Nancy if everything is alright. She gives a small shake of her head and gestures for me to follow him. I wave my thanks, already turning to follow him.

I catch up to him just as a cab pulls to the curb. Sherlock slides into the back, crossing his arms with a sour expression on his face. Keeping my distance, I crawl into the cab before giving the cabbie the name of the restaurant. That perks Sherlock up a bit.

Able to tell he won’t want to talk in front of the driver, I pull out my phone. He prefers to text anyway. Catching Sherlock's eye, I wiggle my mobile and point to his pocket, hoping he will get the hint. He does. Of course he does. With a roll of his eyes so dramatic I fear it will take his head off, he pulls out his phone and wiggles it back.

**I thought we’d get some Chinese and cuddle. Watch some telly. But you don’t seem like you’re quite up for that. Wanna talk?**

The look Sherlock shoots my direction screams, “Really, John?” and he begins to type his response.

_Chinese is fine, yes. Thank you. As for the rest of it, I’m not sure. -SH_

**You need to turn off that signature. I know it’s you. But ok. I’m here to listen if you do.**

_Home first._

———

The rest of the trip is rife with tense, awkward silence, and it creeps into my spine, my shoulders, my jaw—my goddamn scalp feels tight. When we finally make it back to the flat, I head straight to the kitchen and begin doling up food, not bothering to take off my shoes or coat. Sherlock lingers by the entryway, peeling off his gloves, his Belfast, undoing the laces on his shoes one bloody pull at a time. Bloody sod. Avoiding me.

Each spoonful of food is more forcefully plopped on the plate than the last, and I can feel Sherlock’s hot, piercing gaze scorching the back of my neck.

“John.” His voice resonates through the kitchen, through me. My movements freeze. After a moment, my shoulders collapse forward, and I duck my head.

Gripping the counter, I grind out through gritted teeth. “What did I do this time?”

Heat radiates against my side as Sherlock comes to stand by me. “John, I…” he sighs. “The letter.”

My eyes slide shut as I curse myself. The bloody fucking letter. Letting out a deep breath, I turn to him. He has every right to be pissed at me.

“I know it won’t do much, but I am sorry. And I do regret ever even thinking that, let alone writing it down and forcing Molly to deliver it to you.”

Sherlock searches my eyes, flitting back and forth between them, before fleeing to our room. _His room_ , I correct myself, knowing full well I’ve fucked it all up. I put the plates onto the table, sliding them into place, my arms too heavy to do much else. Plopping into a chair, I decide how to make this up to him, if I can make this up to him. With how much I have hurt him, physically and emotionally over the years, he deserves so much better, deserves... not me. My stomach roiling, I push a piece of broccoli around my plate with a fork, staring at the patterns it makes in the sauce.

When Sherlock comes back, he sits down, and slides something across the table to me. I glance at the paper, and my heart splits in two. It’s all I can do not to gag. He kept the damn thing.

“Open it.” Sherlock’s voice is flat, calm.

Clenching and unclenching my fist a few times, I pick up the worn envelope. God, he must have read and re-read the stupid thing. I can’t look into his face—even though so much of me wants to, hoping there might still be something left for us.

I pull out the paper inside and unfold it, the creases starting to tear with use. Familiar handwriting glares up from the page, but in different inks. Both mine and his.

Sherlock had written responses to every question, every accusation, every bloody paragraph.

Except one.

One he left circled with a shaky question mark hovering next to it.

_Don’t you ever, EVER, come close to my daughter again. You are not allowed to hold her, talk to her, look at her, hell, don’t even THINK about her. I can’t believe I ever even considered making you her godfather. What the fuck was I thinking? A sociopath like you could never love her like she needs._

Re-reading those words wrenches an aching groan from my chest as I look back up into his eyes. His mask is in place, and it pierces through my chest, stealing my breath. It has been so long since Sherlock used that technique with me. I don’t know which hurts worse, the clear question that sits on the weathered paper in front of me, or the hidden fear on his face that those words might still play a role in our life one day.

“Sherlock.” His name feels like sandpaper in my throat, raw and scrapped. With a loud swallow, I stare into his pale, cold eyes, pleading with him to understand. “Sherlock, you know, you _know_ , that isn’t going to happen, right? I wrote that out of anger, out of hurt. I swear... I _swear_ it’s not going to happen, and I won’t threaten something like that, ever again. I promise. I promise.” My voice is no louder than a whisper at those last words, my throat dry as my eyes well.

A calculating glare roams over my face. “John. It already _has_ happened. You kept her, and yourself, from me for months. I have no misgivings about your tenacity—it’s usually something incredibly admirable in your character—but if you so choose, you could easily do it again.” No emotion colors his voice. It’s as if he were explaining how the postal system works to someone who had never seen a stamp before. Flat and to the point.

The last, and only time, I have ever felt like I do now was when I watched him step over the ledge of St. Bart’s.

It guts me, spilling my innards, my heart, onto the floor around us, and a single word tears itself free. “No.”

Biting my lips and squeezing my eyes shut, fists clamping into tight balls, I shake my head. “No, Sherlock. It will never happen again. It should have never happened in the first place.” I look over the expanse stretching, gapping, between us, and everything screams at me to make it stop, to reel him back closer. But I do my best to not force it. To only offer explanation. Let him choose. “Remember when I said that so much of the pain I have caused you was because of my own problems? This. This is one of those.”

His eyes bore into mine, burning through the last of my layers.

“Sherlock. From the beginning, from that first night at Angelo’s..." my eyes dart way, "I’ve wanted you. You were right. I was flirting, and your rejection was too much for my ego. Especially since I was still hearing my dad in the back of my head saying, ‘It’s not right, John. It’s disgusting.’ So, I… I fled to every woman I could find." I wave my hand, gesturing to the world outside, away from us, from what we've built, keeping them from spoiling our space further.

"When you… you left, I decided that was it for me. And then Mary came along and changed that. So when you came back, I…" Looking into his eyes, I beg for strength to explain. For words to make him understand. It doesn't come, but I keep going. He deserves this. Sherlock deserves this.

"I couldn’t give that up. It was safe compared to you. To losing you again. To losing myself again. So I played house. Played normal. And then she wasn’t, she wasn't normal. But she was the devil I knew… and Rosie. For how much I want to regret everything, I can’t because I got Rosie."

My breath hitches around this next confession. "But I wanted, want, that whole life, my whole life with you, and when I couldn’t have all of it, I ran. Then, Mary was gone, and I was angry and vicious and wanted to hurt you just as much as I decided you had hurt me."

Nails biting into my palms, I force myself to meet his gaze. The fucking mask still there, still protecting himself from me. Swallowing around the knot forming in my throat, I press on. No retreat. "Honestly, Sherlock, blaming you was, and will remain, the biggest mistake of my life. It led to so much pain. I’d understand if you can’t trust me anymore. I’ll… I’ll do whatever you need from me. Even if it means _you_ decide you don’t want _me_ in your life, I swear you will always have Rosie. Whatever you want. I couldn’t do that to her anymore than I could do it to you.”

Vacant eyes look back at me from across the table, leaving a throbbing ache in the place that once held my heart.

Then, something clicks, and I realize why this came up after therapy.

Pointing at the letter, I ask, “This is why you have The Rehab dream, isn’t it?” Sherlock's gaze drops to the table, and I see a single drop fall from his eye. I must be right. “It’s two of your most real fears being handed to you together.”

Curls bobbing as he nods, Sherlock takes a moment to collect himself, folded hands fidgeting against one another. Raising his head, he stares past me, into the tiles of the counter beyond.

“Yes. There is more to that dream that I haven’t told you.” I sit, quiet and patient, waiting, hoping, begging for him to continue, to meet me halfway. “At some point in the dream, be it how it starts or somewhere in the middle, I knock at a door, and Mary answers. She says, ‘Anyone but you, Sherlock’, hands me the note, and tells me to read it. She waits for me to read the whole thing as if for the first time, every time, each word cutting as deeply as it did initially. Then, she calls someone to drag me away to the center, yelling after me ‘Go to hell, Sherlock. Go right into hell.’”

When he finishes the story, emotion spent, Sherlock’s body shivers and crumples, and he loses balance on his chair, starting to slide to the floor.

I dive out of my seat and catch him before he hits the ground, pulling him half into my lap, our legs tangled and askew.

Rocking us back and forth, I pat down his curls as he stills against my chest, wide-eyed and distant. Over and over again, with each sway of our bodies, I say, “I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I’m so sorry. I love you. We won’t leave you. I promise.”

Each repetition cauterizes a weeping, open wound that I have caused him. For every harsh word, for every thrown punch, every poor joke, misjudgment, and brutalizing kick, I apologize, knowing I will have to make up for it the rest of my life. Prove to him he is deserving and loved. Prove to him I’ve changed. Prove to him that I love him and that I can love well.

With every minute, tension ebbs from his frame, sinking deeper and deeper into my arms. I almost wonder if he has fallen asleep, but at least I know that means he still trusts me even if just a bit.

The light changes by the time his slender fingers wrap around my wrist, urging me to stop. We sit there, still, holding each other. After another few minutes, I look down at him, and Sherlock smiles. A small, hesitant smile, but a smile nonetheless.

My voice, gone hoarse, croaks out a meager, “Hey there, love,” and I try to offer a half-turned smile of my own, not quite sure it’s meant to fit yet. Sherlock shuffles us into a more comfortable position, me leaning against the wall and him sliding down to rest his head in the crook of my neck.

Pressing a kiss onto the crown of his head, I inhale his scent, the smell of his shampoo, and it calms me. We sit in silence, this time welcome, comfortable.

“John?” The sound of his voice, soft and brimming with the emotions that had been missing on his face earlier, fills out the rest of my smile.

“Yeah?” I ask as Sherlock turns to look up at me through his dark lashes.

“I don’t want you to go.” The tenderness with which he says it sends a shiver through me.

Gathering myself, I'm able to offer a quiet response. “Ok. I won’t. For as long as you’ll have me.” Our eyes stay locked as Sherlock sits up, now hovering above me, and slides closer. His eyes search mine before they flick to my lips for a brief second. “Sherlock…” I breathe, soft and low in the space between us, his mouth drawing my attention. Looking up into his gaze once more, I find trust and affection welcoming me in. My tongue darts out to wet my lips as he draws near.

He stops a whisper away, and I feel more than hear his question. “Can... may I kiss you?”

A half-smirk curls the corner of my mouth, and I press my forehead to his, eyes closed, and slip my hand around the nape of his neck, twining my fingers into his hair. “Always.”

Ever so lightly, Sherlock brushes his dry, smooth lips with mine. Tilting my head as I pull him in a little deeper, feeling the fullness of his mouth meld with mine, a small inhale of surprise escapes him. His hands frame my face, fingertips pressing into my hair.

Sherlock sighs against my mouth, shoulders melting, and leans heavily against my chest. A laugh bubbles through my chest and breaks into a smile on my face, his lips slipping against my teeth. So close together, I can feel him pulling back, the rigidity of his back returning. To show I’m not laughing at him, I wrap a hand around his waist and draw him back into me, nipping at his lower lip and giving it a gentle tug.

That gets a moan, and Sherlock presses himself close while pulling out of the kiss, dropping his forehead to mine.

“John,” he breathes, short-winded.

For how chaste the kiss had stayed, it left me breathing heavy, too. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. Scratching the back of his head with blunt nails, I ask, “Alright?”

He nods, rocking our heads in unison before rolling down the side to kiss my temple, my cheek, and drawing away.

A swell of love washes over me as I look up at him. I cup his jaw with my hands and pull him in for a final lingering kiss to the forehead.

A soft smile greets me as I let go and run my palms down his arms.

Smiling back, I swing my head toward our bedroom and ask, “Sleep? You are going to have to pick up Rosie from Greg and Molly’s pretty early tomorrow morning.”

At Rosie's name, light dances in Sherlock's eyes before he nods and pushes himself to stand, catching my hands with his own to pull me up along with him.

As we walk hand in hand to our room, I doubt there will be any nightmares tonight.


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last part! Thank you all for reading! :)

A few years down the road, Rosie comes home with Mrs. Hudson. With a pat on the head and a promise to pop by later, Mrs. Hudson leaves, and Rosie heads into the flat.

She sees Sherlock laying on the couch twitching, his head rocking back and forth. With her small hand, she reaches out to him and pats the back of his hand. “There, there, Papa. There, there.” Sherlock’s eyes pop open and focus on the room around him before looking down at his little Rosie. He scoots over on the couch. Patting the space he emptied, he encourages her to join him, and Rosie clambers up, excited for cuddles. This is always her favorite. Sherlock curls himself around her, breathing in the softness of her hair, wrapping her up in his long arms.

“Hello, Little Watson. How was school today?”

“ ‘ts fine. Are you okay? You were making funny noises.” Her eyebrows furrow in an exact replica of her father’s. Sherlock runs a gentle finger over it and down her nose, to smooth out the concern. With a tap to the tip of her nose and a smile he says, “Now that you are here, I am perfect.” She giggles, shaking her head, and burrows into his arms.

John walks in after a day at the clinic and sees them curled into each other. They both look up when he closes the door, and he gives them a tired, warm smile. Toeing off his toes, John hangs his coat in-between the long Belfast and the tiny, puffy blue one. He comes over and places a kiss on the top of each of their heads.

“Is there room for one more before dinner?” John asks, already moving to lay down on the edge and wrapping around Rosie from the other side. Sherlock throws the couch pillows to the ground to give them more room, the routine figured out over several previous failed attempts. Rosie giggles as her fathers shift around her trying to make enough room. Once everyone is settled, she declares, “Papa had another nightmare, Daddy.” John looks into Sherlock’s eyes over her head, asking the same question they always ask.

“The Pool, version 3,” Sherlock responds in a flat tone.

John nods in understanding. That one would occur again tonight then. Whenever Sherlock has The Pool nightmare—and it's version three: the one where John dies, but Sherlock doesn’t—there is always an immediate repeat with either version one or version two occurring.

Sherlock has to stop John’s death, so much so he plays out one or the other of the determined fixes. One being the actual events as they occurred or two being that John survives while Sherlock doesn’t.

Thankfully, due to time, therapy, and talking through them, the frequency of the nightmares have decreased over these past few years. But they have never truly stopped.

John rests his arm across both Rosie and Sherlock, his hand falling on Sherlock’s side. Rubbing gentle circles into Sherlock's back with his thumb, John takes a moment to appreciate the family they have made together. It was a long road getting here, and the thought brings a smile to his face.

After a few minutes, Rosie squirms, ready to get up and play again. Not quite ready to let go, John clings onto them both a little more tightly before untangling them all. John half rolls, half falls off the couch, giving Rosie the space to clamber out of the nest. She bounds off the couch and runs to play with her toys strewn around the sitting room.

John sits up, looking at Sherlock still lying on his side, arm cushioned under his head. He looks radiant. Sherlock sends a knowing smile in his direction before asking, “Thai?”

“Sounds wonderful.”

———

That night, the padding of footsteps eases John to wakefulness before the squeak of the door reveals a small figure obscured by the dark. “Daddy? Papa?”

Beside John, Sherlock rolls over with a snort and a blink, trying to orient himself to the world and what was happening. But John looks down and sees his daughter looking up at him with her big blue eyes and tear stains on her cheeks.

“Oh, Rosie, love, what’s wrong?” he asks, already pulling her onto the bed. Sherlock shuffles over so Rosie can lie down in-between them, to surround her with their presence.

“I had a bad dream." She snuffles and wipes her nose and eyes with her forearm. "You and Papa were running off with Uncle Greggie and left me behind. But the dark, scary monster was under my bed the whole time, and you... you wouldn’t listen to me when I told you where it was. So you le—le—le—left me here with it. All by my—myself. And... and I didn’t want Mrs. Hudson to get hurt, so I... so I locked her out. Why, Daddy? Daddy, why did you leave me?” Her voice catches as tears stream down her plump cheeks. Her brows furrow with a glint of anger and hurt in her eyes.

It’s the saddest thing John thinks he has ever seen. He looks over her head to Sherlock to find him wide-eyed and lost for how to help. Gazing down at Rosie, John pulls her into his arms and cradles her head against his shoulder.

“It was just a nightmare, love. We wouldn’t ever do that to you. We will always, always try to listen to what you have to say. We won’t leave you, sweetheart.” He punctuates each sentence with a kiss to the top of her head. Sherlock catches on and draws up to hold both her and John. Rosie cocooned between them, they surround her with love and comfort.

“Your daddy is right you know,” Sherlock says in a soft, low voice, “we both love you so much." He leans down and presses a kiss into her soft curls. "I made a vow a long time ago to protect you, and I am not about to give that up now.” After a few minutes wrapped in her fathers’ arms, Rosie's crying turns into sniffling, her breathing relaxing back into a normal pattern.

Craning her head to gaze up at Sherlock, she asks “Papa, how do you deal with bad dreams?”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to glance over her head to John before continuing, a look of helplessness in his eyes. “Well. Just like this, I suppose. I always do better when I can immediately be surrounded by my loved ones, especially in a cuddle like this.” He emphasizes the sentiment with a squeeze. “It also helps to be reminded of what is real. For example, in my nightmares, I lose you, your daddy, or the both of you, so being reminded that you are still here with me helps to ground me in reality, takes away the fear of the nightmares.” Pausing, Sherlock presses another kiss to the top of her head and squeezes the cuddle tighter. “This is why your daddy and I told you that we would listen to you. That we are here to protect you the best we can.”

John picks up where Sherlock stops. “Nightmares are just a fear about what has happened or will happen. They aren't what is happening right at the moment. When we listen to them and find the source of the fear, we can address it. They can help us know more about ourselves. But to do that, you have to talk about it. That was something your papa and I had to figure out.”

Rosie nods and settles into the warmth of their arms, back leaning against Sherlock's chest and forehead pressed against John's. Silence falls over the group, only broken by muffled, soft breathing. Rosie breaks the quiet with a simple question, still huddled between them. “You love each other, don’t you?”

Startled by the blunt question, they look to each other before Sherlock takes the lead and responds, “Yes. We do. Very much. And we both love you just as much. You are our little Rosie Watson.” He tickles her for a brief moment, making her squeal. With a smile, Rosie nuzzles deeper between the two of them.

After a moment, she asks, “Why don’t we all have the same name? All my friends have the same last name as both their parents. Isn’t that how you know you're a family?” This time, John looks across to Sherlock with a mild glare, and Sherlock grimaces in return.

John whispers, “You know, this is your fault for teaching her to be so observant in the first place.” Rolling his eyes, John gazes down to Rosie and explains, “Rosie, your family is who you make it to be. Mrs. Hudson is a part of our family even though she isn’t related to us. Same with Uncle Greg and Auntie Molly. We have created our own family. So no, last names are not the only way to tell a family. Does that make sense?”

Rosie’s face scrunches up with all the strength of her five-year-old contemplation abilities. After a moment it relaxes, and with a small, sharp nod she says, “Yes. I understand. But I don’t like it.”

Raising his brow, Sherlock shoots a quick glance at John and prods deeper, “And why is that?”

“Because I want people to know you are my papa, Papa.” With wide eyes, Sherlock looks back at John. A small smile creeps onto John’s face, and he says with a half-shrug, “It would make everything a bit easier, honestly. Explaining it sometimes has been... quite the hassle.” Sherlock blinks, stunned. Seeing the stress creeping into Sherlock's frame, John amends, “If you don’t want to, that’s fine too.”

Still in a slight daze, Sherlock asks, “You and you want me to adopt you?” He gestures between John and Rosie and himself with a shaking finger.

Rosie nods, curls bouncing in every direction. John stares into Sherlock’s eyes, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. With another half-shrug, John adds, “Well, that, and marry me. It'll help with the whole name-change bit. And she's right. You're family, and I don't want you going anywhere.” John wraps a hand around Sherlock's waist and pulls him in closer without squishing Rosie.

She flips around, pressing her small back into John's chest and knocking the wind out of him. Her face lights up with hope, joy, and excitement, replacing the tears and fears of before.

Tears well up in Sherlock’s eyes. It’s been a while since that had happened, but all this love and acceptance and belonging gazing back at him is too much. He looks into John’s eyes, searching, making sure this was really happening and not another of his dream-world fantasies. The mixture of hope with a touch of anxiousness, of rejection, is not a look Sherlock could replicate in his mind palace, never having seen it quite like this before.

“Yes,” he says, voice rough. Gathering his resolve, he repeats, “Yes, to the both of you. It would be the honor of a lifetime." Sneaking another glance to John, Sherlock adds, "Of three lifetimes."

Rosie shrieks and dissolves into joyful giggles. “Does this mean I get to wear a pretty dress?”

At the same time, Sherlock adds, “Watson-Holmes does have a nice ring to it.”

John leans down and presses a kiss to Rosie’s head. He hasn't stopped smiling since Sherlock responded. Gazing at Sherlock, John responds to the both of them, “Yes, I do think it does, love.”


End file.
